Cold sterile walls, grippy socks, group therapy sessions, that's all life is now. You've been put here indefinitely, which might as well mean forever. Others come and go too fast for anything to matter. Make friends one day, and the next they're being tossed out by the staff.

Some of them come back. Revolving door patients. The ones that leave then relapse and return over and over again. Even still, they're not permanent enough fixtures to bother getting close to.

One stands put though. Klaus. Tall, lanky, with odd tattoos on the palms of his hands. Even after a week sober when withdrawals should be hitting like a bitch, he stays overly cheery, waving at the attendants every time he leaves with promises to return soon. Promises he makes good on every single time.

He whoops and cheers down the halls as they escort him in for the fourth time in less than three months.